


The New Man

by Mamaorion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Ballet, Bisexual John Watson, Boyfriends, Capoeira, Chinese Food, Cycling, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Eventual Romance, Getting to Know Each Other, H.I.A.T.U.S., Happy Ending, Johnlock - Freeform, Justice, M/M, Made For Each Other, POV Sherlock Holmes, PTSD John, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson - Freeform, hiatusubmission, interrupted hate crime, jerky Donovan, monthly writing prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 12:01:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10555982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mamaorion/pseuds/Mamaorion
Summary: A new delivery man shows up with Sherlock’s takeaway one night, piquing his interest enormously. Over the course of several deliveries, they discover more about the other’s unique abilities and their mutual respect and intrigue grow. After they save a young couple from a hate-fueled attack, their own connection deepens. (Sweet, lightly silly, some tension that's quickly resolved.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for H.I.A.T.U.S. monthly Johnlock fanfic prompt: Alternate Meeting  
> Check out @hiatustory on tumblr: https://hiatustory.tumblr.com/ 
> 
> Note of warning: some physical injury, minimally described; some violence against bad guys; minimally described depiction of a homophobic hate crime that ends well; reference to parental disapproval of sexuality; John & Sherlock flirty and awkward

 

“Right, so we’ve got one ma po bean curd, one fried pak choy in garlic sauce, one deep fried banana. With delivery, brings you to twenty-four pounds, even.”

The delivery man from Red Sun Shanghai Takeaway looks up from his receipt. Sherlock scowls at him. _Bit old for delivery_. Middling 30s. His regular guy, Chen, is barely 19. New Guy is out of breath from laboring up the stairs with a cane, but his right trouser leg is pegged and the other is spotted with grease. A worn messenger bag emblazoned with reflective tape is slung across his chest. He obviously cycled the order over, despite the limp. Interesting.

“You’re new.”

“Oh. Yea, to this route, anyway,” he replies, handing Sherlock the paper sack. “Started covering for the usual guy tonight. Hope it didn’t take too long.”

“No-no, just… observing.”

Sherlock sets the bag at his feet and rifles through his wallet for notes. He sees the delivery man eyeing the room behind him and feels a sudden stab of self-consciousness. What’s wrong with him? He never cared when Chen saw his flat in disarray.

“Bit of a mess at the moment.”

“Mess?” The new delivery man’s youthful, weathered face crinkles with a wry smile and Sherlock’s stomach does something funny. “Looks like a bomb went off in a library.”

“I’ve just solved a case.” Sherlock gestures vaguely at the floor and walls covered with papers, news clippings, a large neon green duffel and a single rusty hockey skate marooned in the papers like flotsam. “There’s actually an order to it.”

“Oh. Case? You’re some kind of… police detective or something?”

“Or something, yes."

“Sorry, um, not my business. Well, under all that, nice flat you’ve got here.”

“You think so?”

“Bit big for one, assuming–” he seems to remember himself and blusters, “assuming it’s just you, which, again, is none of my business.”

“Mine alone. Difficult enough to afford it.”

The delivery guy nods vigorously, back on safer ground.

“Ridiculous, trying to afford a flat in London. Just barely scraping enough together to keep mine, and it’s a dismal little box of a thing compared to this.”

“You’re new.”

“Yes,” he furrows his eyebrows, puzzled, “we’ve covered that.”

“Why?”

“Pardon?”

“Oh, never mind, clearly none of _my_ business. Here,” he pushes the money at the man. With a quick re-count, he nods at Sherlock, but seems reluctant to leave.

“Ta, well, good evening. Enjoy your… banana.”

“You, too.”

The delivery man limps laboriously back down the stairs, leaving heavily onto his cane. The front door shuts _._ Sherlock thinks over what he’s just said. Winces. _Idiot_.

He taps his lips and then strides over to the windows, observes his new delivery man limping to a dated bicycle, a cargo crate on the back. Well-kept, nothing flashy. He attaches the cane to the frame with clips he’s rigged up, straps on a helmet, and pedals off. As he weaves into traffic, Sherlock detects no hint of weakness in the lame leg. _Interesting._

…

The following night, he orders his usual. No case on. Not really hungry. But he’s _curious._ When the doorbell rings, he leaps up and thunders down the stairs before Mrs. Hudson can answer. He opens the door to find…

“Chen.”

“Mr. Holmes, evening.” Immune to his sour tone, the willowy young half-Scottish-half-Japanese youth gives him a lopsided grin full of braces. He holds out the bag. “Your usual, sir.

Sherlock holds out the notes, takes the bag, nods goodbye, and closes the door a bit harder than he needed to. Then he blinks and opens the door so quickly Chen hasn’t had time to step away. He blinks, startled.

“Mr. Holmes?”

“New man on your route last night.”

“Oy? Oh yea, he covers for me when I’m at night class. Problem?”

“No problem. Class? What subject?”

“It’s um, artistic movement, sir,” Chen says sheepishly.

Sherlock looks him over quickly.

“Ballet, Chen, and do admit it proudly.”

“Oh! How’d you… course. Right.” He grins. “Thank you, sir, I will sir.”

“You must be dedicated – such a demanding art form. I can see it’s taking a toll.”

“Too right,” Chen relaxes, warming into his subject. “Toes are bloody _killin’_ me. Five mornings a week with my tutor, four extra night sessions for flexibility an’ core strength.” His eyes dive to the ground.

“Started quite late, considering, got a lotta catchin’ up to do.”

“You’re not living at home anymore, then. Your father…”

“Doesn’t know a thing about it. Mum’s cool. Living with my sister. Better that way, yea?”

“Mm. Where do you study?”

“City Academy.

Sherlock pulls his wallet out and gives the delivery boy another 50 pounds. Chen backs away shaking his head.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly, Mr. Holmes, sir.”

“Course you could. I consider it an investment in the arts.” He claps the notes into Chen’s hand and folds his fingers over them. “Can’t be easy to afford so many classes and your share of the rent on your present income. Juggling two jobs at the moment, aren’t you? Zappa’s Pizza? Lunch rush?”

Chen shakes his head, smiling.

“Really are a marvel, sir.”

“Not at all, it’s painfully obvious, Chen. Soak your feet in epsom salt after practice. Now, off with you. Study hard.”

“Yes sir, I will sir,” he shouts over his shoulder as he leaps an enthusiastic _grand jété_ down the sidewalk.

Sherlock smiles, closing the door. Before he’s even reached the top of the stairs he’s looked up the school’s night class schedule and determined _exactly_ when he will next be ordering Red Sun takeaway.

...

“Your usual. Twenty-four pounds. So, cleaned up a bit?”

The delivery man, _his_ delivery man, stands in the doorway holding a paper sack dotted with oil stains and spatters of rain. The scent of fried bean curd fills the entryway. He’s breathless again from his climb. Sherlock suspected that if he met him at the street door, it would look like pity for his limp. He does not think this man wants to be seen as weak. His hair is wet from where the rain seeped under his helmet, sticking up at odd little points. _Cycling these streets on a dark, rainy night – treacherous._ The delivery man’s eyes glitter and his cheeks are flushed. _Look at you, completely high on the adrenaline!_

“Yes. Not on a case at the moment.” _Not true, you’ve got two on, but you stopped just to clean the flat before he got here and you know it. You’re not even going to eat this takeaway. What are you doing?_

“Overheard something interesting about you. From Chen. Your regular delivery guy.”

“Oh?”

 “Said you could tell he studies ballet and works a lunch shift at Zappa’s, just by taking a glance at him.”

“Yes. True.”

“Right, but how did you know? Is there some trick to it? You saw him with his gear on after a class and he didn’t know it. Or you popped by Zappa’s for a slice, but went unseen in the crowd. Like a magic trick – they don’t know how much you know. Makes you look clever.”

“No trick. I simply observe.” Sherlock feels himself bristle. _You too, then. Pity._

“So you say. But I see Chen all the time, and I didn’t know he was studying ballet ‘til he asked me to cover his shift. None of us did.”

“That’s because you’re all idiots.”

The delivery man scowls.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Sherlock waves dismissively. “Practically everybody is.”

His delivery man gives him a challenging stare.

“Looked you up. _The Science of Deduction._ ”

Sherlock pauses as he thumbs through his wallet.

“Oh?”

“Seems a bit much, really.”

“And you’d be the expert, I’m sure.” Sherlock huffs a sigh. “Here, thirty quid. Goodnight.” He holds the notes out for the man to take and leave him be, but he doesn’t. He actually leans against the doorway, arms crossed, as if he doesn’t have three other orders congealing in the rain in his bike basket outside. He stares a challenge at Sherlock.

“Alright then, do me.”

“Pardon?”

“Go on. _Deduce me._ ”

Sherlock blinks rapidly, the data firing at him from every angle of the man’s body before he can even stop himself. _Why should I bother? He’s only going to be cruel._ _But…  damn my curiosity._

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

The man startles, his haughtiness evaporating.

“Oh, come now, why the surprise?” Sherlock drawls. “By your estimation, I simply fought in the same battles as you, but you never _noticed_ me.”

“Afghanistan – but how did you– how could you possibly–”

“Simple.” The deduction tumbles out. “The cut of your hair and physical bearing says military. Likely a lieutenant due to the ease with which you give orders to strangers.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Your hands and face are tanned, but it doesn’t reach past your wrists or neckline. Musculature of your fingers, lack of callouses, says you performed specialist work, possibly as a surgeon. You limp and favor your left arm. Wounded in battle, recently removed from service. You’re trying to get by on a military pension, pedaling Szechuan chicken around London to help you afford a piece of shite flat. So, where does a man have occupational exposure to the sun, become recently injured in military combat, and land himself back in London? Afghanistan or Iraq.”

The man stares at him wide-eyed, his mouth slightly open.

“How could you _possibly_ know I was a surgeon?”

“Bit of a leap. You do really have a doctor’s hands, though. And I’m sure your therapist has reams on why your PTSD is preventing you from returning to your chosen field.”

“How do you know I have a therapist?” he spits back.

“Oh really,” Sherlock sneers, “you’ve got PTSD, of course you have a therapist.”

“How–”  
  
“You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand and walk with a psychosomatic limp. Judging by the shadows under your vaguely bloodshot eyes you suffer from insomnia. PTSD. You should fire her.”

“Why on earth should I?”

“Despite your injuries, despite your past, you choose to cycle on busy, darkened streets. You _love_ it. She thinks you need _peace_ and _calm_ to heal from your trauma. You don’t. You weren’t damaged by the war. You _long_ for it.”

The delivery man stares openly at him. Sherlock waits, bracing for the bitter retort he knows is coming.

“That was _brilliant._ ”

Sherlock pulls up taut, looking for the barb. There isn’t one.

“Sorry?” He scowls.

“I mean…” the man absently brushes his hand on the back of his cropped hair. “You just _read_ all of that. Just by looking at me?”

“Well, to be fair, I saw it the first time you made a delivery.”

“ _Fantastic_.”

Sherlock feels his face redden and his stomach do that strange thing, again. He ducks his chin to hide a foolish little grin. _What on earth is wrong with me_?

“That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do people usually say?”

“Piss off.”

The man laughs. And not at him. He extends his hand.

“John. Dr. John Watson. Of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. _Afghanistan_.”

Sherlock hesitantly takes it. It’s firm, warm. A surgeon’s hand, he was right.

“Did I get anything wrong?” he asks hesitantly.

“Captain, not lieutenant.”

“ _Captain._ There’s always _something_.”

“Really, though, that was _brilliant_.” John’s face is shining. “Not sure how you’d have possibly read my rank in my, I dunno, my bike bag or the way I part my hair.”

Sherlock realizes he hasn’t released Dr. John Watson’s hand. With a quick shake, he lets go.

“Sorry, before, about doubting you.”

“Don’t, everyone does.”

“Really? Unbelievable. So, this website of yours, that what you do for work?”

“I’m a consulting detective. First in the world. I made up the job.”

“Really. Well, that’s just, that’s brilliant.”

They stand in the entryway awkwardly for a moment. Sherlock’s fingers tap a sonata on his thighs at high speed. He can’t think of a thing to say, but he doesn’t want his Dr. John Watson Red Sun New Delivery Man to leave.

“Um, I should. Deliveries.”

“Oh. Yes. Right.”

“So, til next time.”

“Til next time.”

“Do enjoy that banana.” John winks, then gives him a terse, military-like nod and grabs for his cane, leaning on it heavily as he makes his way down the stairs.

“And you,” Sherlock calls with a chuckle. The door shuts. _I’m grinning. Why am I grinning?_

Sherlock drifts back into the flat, passes his forgotten bag of dinner, and watches John from the window, lit up in the drizzly glow of the streetlight. Just as he’s about to attach his cane to the bike, John looks at it wonderingly, shaking his head and – yes – laughs to himself. Then he’s off, into the night. Sherlock watches the street for a while, trying to categorize and codify the various new sensations in his body brought about by this unusual interaction. He needs more data. Whirling away from the window, he flops onto the couch with an extravagant sigh.

Chen is working tomorrow night. Bloody hell.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

“Evening, Mr, Holmes. Your usual.” John the Delivery Man has brought him his _usual_ seven times now, each night leaving behind increasingly puzzling data with his delivery. John the Pensioner Adrift in London, John _Brilliant, Fantastic_ John looks up from the receipt and scowls at him. “Say, you alright?” Despite the searing pain in his right arm, Sherlock is pleased to notice how John the Retired Army Doctor’s entire demeanor changes as he medically appraises Sherlock

“I may have been…stabbed… earlier this evening.”

John immediately dumps Sherlock’s delivery and his messenger bag on the floor of the entryway and rushes into the flat.

“Where?” he demands, his eyes darting all over Sherlock’s body, looking for his own clues. But Sherlock is wrapped in his Belstaff, clutching his arms tightly, making it hard to see the wound at first glance.

“Right arm. It’s not that bad, really–”

“Hush. Take off your coat, let me see.”

John quickly, but gently, helps Sherlock slide out of his coat, being extremely careful as he removes the sleeve on his right arm. The tight, eggplant-colored shirt is stained a dark indigo around a jagged tear in the fabric of his bicep. John nods.

“Just here?”

“Yes.”

“Come, sit at the kitchen table so I can see it in the light. You look pale enough to faint. Not that that’s unusual.”

Sherlock obeys mutely, letting John push him into a chair. He is a bit dizzy. John’s brought his messenger bag, a battered, grease-stained thing that’s seen a lot of cycling – and pulls out a fairly substantial first aid kit. Sherlock quietly watches as John snaps on latex gloves and slices away his purple sleeve at the shoulder. There is absolutely no tremor in his left hand.

He sucks in his breath sharply as John gently peels the sodden sleeve from the wound.

“Sorry. Nasty cut. Not too deep, fortunately, but you’ve lost a fair bit of blood. Mostly clotted, now. How long did you wait to call?”

He dives into his kit and returns quickly, dabbing at the wound with surgical cotton and alcohol. Sherlock flares his nostrils and turns away, not wanting to answer. John doesn’t push the issue. He’s grateful.

“Going to sting, sorry.”

Sherlock watches John work, arm throbbing. His hands are efficient and skilled. A tidy mound of blood-soaked cotton appears on the kitchen table next to his microscope and a mess of petri dishes. John’s close to him, his short, sandy hair catching little golden highlights under the kitchen light, his face taut and concentrated. He smells good, a combination of something evergreen in his shampoo, sweat, fried rice, and a fresh hint of the chilly spring night. His eyes, very focused, are a strange shade. Sherlock spends several moments debating with himself about their exact hue. Not blue, not gray, but something in between, like a stormy sky over the Atlantic. Those eyes twitch to meet his. Sherlock feels himself redden.

“Alright?”

Sherlock nods.

“Just a scratch,” he rumbles. “Didn’t need to make such a fuss.”

“You say _stabbed,_ Mr. Holmes, and I’m going to have a look. Don’t be an idiot. This needed medical attention.”

“Sherlock’s fine.”

“Sherlock, what did you do, chase some purse-snatcher down an alley and get yourself cornered?”

“You should see the other guy.”

John’s stern expression softens as he chuckles.

“Then, instead of heading straight to A&E, you order ma po?”

“Don’t like hospitals. Knew you’d come. It’s Tuesday.” _Not exactly a purse-snatcher. Mycroft would know the instant I showed up._

John pauses, hands poised above his work. He blinks at Sherlock, absorbing his words. He sucks in his breath suddenly, focusing on the wound. Sherlock observes the corners of his mouth twitch up, but he tries to keep his face straight.

“Right then. Going to need a few stitches. If you like, I can finish the job, unless you have someone else who usually sees to your wounds when you’re dodging professional medical help?”

“I prefer you, if it’s all the same.”

“Ah. Ta.” That twitch of lips again. Sherlock wants to keep making that happen.

John pulls more supplies from his kit, slathering on antiseptic and spraying something that makes his skin feel prickly, then numb. He’s taken out a modern kind of suture tape, measuring and trimming it to the exact length of his wound.

“Quite a first aid kit you take on your deliveries.”

“Tell me why.”

“What?”

“Go on, you like it. Tell me why I travel around with such a ridiculously overstocked first aid kit.”

Sherlock’s eyes take on a soft focus as he balances the algebraic equation of his deductions. After a moment, he gasps.

“Sorry, that sting?”

“No, well, _yes_ , quite a lot, actually, but I wasn’t reacting to that. You. Patch people up on your rounds, as you find them.”

“Very good.” He smiles warmly at him. Sherlock’s belly fills with honey. _Idiot. Get ahold of yourself._ “Wouldn’t believe the messes I stumble on. Near-overdoses, babies about to be born, couples at each other’s throats. And there I am with the Peking duck and my kit, faster than any ambulance. They usually wouldn’t call one, anyway. Like you. But this is the first time I’ve ever been _summoned_ before. Flattered, really.”

John has finished taping the dressing over the wound and rolls gauze around Sherlock’s bicep.

“Fascinating,” Sherlock says, meaning it.

“Really?” John peaks his eyebrows at him. “Not what most people say.” He grins mischievously. Sherlock returns the grin.

“What do most people say?”

John shrugs, smile fading.

“Nothing, actually, never told anyone. Not even my therapist. Not many to tell, honestly.”

Sherlock nods. _Alone then, like me._

“And certainly, your chosen method of transportation, while fueling your need for a bit of adrenaline, must also have its hazards. How’s your leg?”

As way of answer, John hitches up his left pant-leg with a grin to show his own recently-applied wound dressing over the side of his calf.

“Nice one! I was trying to hide the extra limp, though you probably saw that. Dodged a lorry, caught my leg on the fender. _Pedaling Szechuan chicken all over London for a shite flat_ can be more interesting than you think.”

“Indeed.” He gazes softly at John who goes about cleaning up the mess, his eyes flicking up to him every few moments. Each glance feels like sparks.

“You’re going to need antibiotics for that. I’m not any kind of real doctor these days, so you’d best get it looked at tomorrow and get a proper prescription. And I’m going to text you in the morning to make sure you do, Sherlock,” he says with a stern tone that makes Sherlock’s soft gaze snap into focus. “Because I can tell you’re the kind of blighter who would ignore himself in favor of something more interesting.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you _care_?”

“Why do I care?” John frowns at him incredulously. Sherlock finds he likes this righteous anger almost as much as the warm grins. “Because I’m a bloody doctor whether I’m getting paid as one or not.” John ducks into his kit, his tone becoming softer. “And I’d prefer if my most interesting delivery not die of sepsis from a bloody knife scratch.”

Sherlock blinks rapidly. John hands him a few small pills.

“Painkiller. Over the counter. Take these tonight.”

“Yes, doctor.”

John smiles. Sherlock smiles back. The warmth, that honey-on-a-warm-scone sensation, oozes through his torso.

“Now, I have other deliveries to make before they fire me for good this time.”

John has re-packed his first aid kit with efficient speed and is nearly out the door.

“John,” Sherlock calls, sitting up straight and trying not to look weak. John pauses at the door and turns.

“Thank you. Truly.”

John gives him a wry half-grin, a parting shot of warmth.

“I’ll text you in the morning, Sherlock.”  

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 _Text thread:_ **  
**

**Unknown number** : Good morning, Sherlock. This is your Szechaun Chicken delivery man texting from his shite flat. **  
**

**S. Holmes** : Morning, John. How is it you have my number? I always order online and pay with cash.

 **Unknown number** : You have it on your website, idiot. I’m not a stalker.

 **S. Holmes** : Ah

 **S. Holmes** : I went to a doctor

 **S. Holmes** : There was nothing for them to do. They changed the dressing. Said it was expertly done.

 **Dr. John Watson** : Of course it was. Antibiotics?

 **S. Holmes** : Yes. Already begun.

 **Dr. John Watson** : Good. Ordering dinner tonight?

 **S. Holmes** : Yes. Though not until late.

 **S. Holmes** : Could you possibly do me one more favor?

 **Dr. John Watson** : Of course

 **S. Holmes** : Save my delivery for last.

…

John climbs the stairs to 221B. He’s juggling twice as much food as usual and leaning awkwardly on his cane. The door to the flat is open.

“Sherlock?”

“In here, come in, I’ll just be a moment.”

John limps hesitantly over the threshold. Sherlock is perched in an armchair typing into his laptop.

“You ordered quite a lot tonight. Expecting company?”

“Oh, very observant, doctor. Please, could you set it over here on the desk?” He looks up, wrinkling his face into a grimace. “You know, my arm.”

John gives him a suspicious smile, but places the bags on the desk. It’s been set for two. John tugs the receipt out of one of the bags a little gruffly and glares at the two place settings. _Oh? What’s that, a hint of jealousy? Interesting._ John begins to read off the order. Sherlock interrupts, clicking the laptop closed resolutely.

“No need, John, I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Oh. Got yourself a date tonight, then?” It is decidedly _not_ asked with his usual offhand, friendly courtesy. Sherlock tents his fingers in front of his lips and peers at him over his fingertips.

“Not sure, honestly. Depends.”

John turns, looking suddenly weary, his voice gone flat.

“Sorry, not my business. Total’s fifty-eight quid.”

“Hmm. Might be, after all. Off duty now, are you not?”

“Well, I need to bring the last payments back–” John blinks, confused by the question.

“Right, of course. Shouldn’t have assumed.” Sherlock’s face falls.

“But – I can do it in the morning,” John says warily, “long as I let them know.”

“Ah! Excellent.” Sherlock brightens considerably. “Are you otherwise free for the evening?”

John gives him a long, uncertain stare.

“Nothing waiting for me tonight but cold tamarind duck at my flat.”

“Then do allow me to thank you properly for your services last night.” Sherlock flourishes his hands toward the two place settings. John gapes at him.

“Wait… you bought _me_ dinner? This was for _me_?”

“Problem?”

“No-no, it’s just.” He runs his hand over his mouth and sucks in a breath. “Well, no one’s ever done that before.”

“Impossible, nice doctor like you. Oh...” Sherlock has pulled out his wallet. _Forgot to bloody go to the bloody cash machine. Idiot._

“…Oh?”

“I, um, seem to be out of cash at the moment.” He makes a show of turning his wallet upside down. “If you don’t mind a brief stroll before dinner, we can just pop down to the machine on the corner. Or you could wait, I won’t be but a few minutes.”

John, still bewildered by Sherlock’s offer of dinner, shrugs easily.

“Sure, I’ll come. Night’s young. Chilly, though. You’ll want to wrap up in that big, flashy coat of yours.”

“It’s not big and _flashy_ ,” Sherlock protests as he strides to the coat hook. “It’s elegant. And practical.”

“Ah. Touched a nerve, very sorry.” John tries to hide his smirk as Sherlock ties on his scarf.

“Really, John,” he says, tossing the scarf over his shoulder. “You have no idea how valuable a touch of the dramatic can be in my line of work.” He grins. _What, am I being playful? What is this?_

John, still wearing his messenger bag, follows Sherlock down the stairs. Sherlock waits patiently for him at the door as he struggles down, and doesn’t comment. They walk out into the night. It’s cool, with a fresh wind that ruffles his hair and sets the coat flapping. Sherlock spreads his arms out so the wind can buffet the coat like a dark flag.

“You see?”

“Ah, I do,” John grins at him. “Had a thing for capes as a lad, did you?”

“Batman. So brooding. All those gadgets. And so _righteous_.”

“Always preferred Han Solo myself.”

“Who?”

John, limping along next to him, shakes his head, incredulous.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“No, what? Who is he?”

They’ve reached the cash machine. Sherlock quickly withdraws the funds, passing payment for dinner to John, plus a nice tip.

“Ta. But _really,_ Sherlock, how could someone like you, who can tell the difference between every fountain pen manufactured since 1910 by its _nib–_ ”

“Oh, you’ve been reading my site! I’m touched!”

“It’s _Star Wars_ , Sherlock. Oh – fine, do you have Netflix? We’re remedying this tonight.”

“We’re watching a _movie?”_

“Bloody right we are–”

Sherlock suddenly whirls around, holding up a hand to silence John.

“What–”

“Listen, you hear that? Sounds like…. Not good.”

John stares at him incredulously. No, he can’t hear it, but Sherlock knows what his Baker Street sounds like on a calm night. He also knows the sounds of jeering, of hate, the way they warp the air and send daggers in all directions. He can’t quite place it, but he can _feel_ the disturbance in the air like a splinter in silk.

“Let’s go check it out.”

“What? I don’t hear anything.”

“I know. Will you come?” Sherlock tents his eyebrows at him. “Could be dangerous.”

“Well then,” John replies with a smirk, “You do seem to know what I like.” _Oh my god, was that flirting?_

Sherlock tries to suppresses the effervescent bubbles in his solar plexus as they walk quickly toward the source of the disturbance, but they just morph into a kind of dangerous giddiness. He feels the hairs along his neck prickle as he senses, if not quite hears, the tension.

“John, we need to run, _now_.”

As they get closer, Sherlock’s _sense_ that something is wrong manifests into an audibly discordant bray of shouting coming from a small knot of people farther down Baker Street. They’re yelling slurs at someone in their midst. Awful things. The giddiness he’s feeling transmutes into the familiar, electric fury that always comes when meting out justice. John can hear it now, too, his body going rigid.

“Oh bloody _hell_.” John takes on a burst of speed and Sherlock grins widely as he lengthens his stride to keep up. Soon they’re running, bolting toward the small crowd less than 50 meters away. Suddenly, with no words exchanged, they slow their run to a walk. Sherlock observes John from the corner of his eye. His jaw is set, eyes hard, chest puffed with anger.

“What’s the plan?” John turns to catch his eye. Not anxious. No, he’s _thrilled._

“Follow my lead,” As they near the tight, angry knot, Sherlock grins and reaches out, taking John’s hand, twining their fingers together tightly. For a moment John looks completely surprised, then realization dawns. He grins wickedly at Sherlock and squeezes back. _Oh, he’s really too good._

The knot of shadowy bodies resolves itself into three tall teenage boys towering over a couple they’ve backed up against the stone wall. Beyond the wall is a shadowy park, good place to get quietly brutalized. _Fortunately, these idiots are show-boaters, doing their hate in plain sight._ Sherlock hisses as the shadowy couple takes clearer form. It’s Chen and a lean, black boy, clearly also a dancer by his build. Chen has a bloody nose. They look terrified. Rage crackles through Sherlock. Not _this,_ not _here,_ and certainly not to his _friend._

“What have we got here?” John calls out loudly. The aggressors turn slightly, taking in the older couple before them, hands clasped.

“What do you think John? Fair fight?”

“Oo, we’re a bit outnumbered, love.”

Sherlock can’t help himself. Even with the acting, it sends a shiver through him. _Focus._

“Could be exciting, though, never taken on three hate-mongering, testosterone-pumped arseholes half my age.”

“Not your fight, you saggy old queen,” one of the group leers.

“Oh? Do you think so, John?”

John gives his hand a solid squeeze before releasing it.

“I think it’s _very_ much our fight, Sherlock.”

As Sherlock and John move in, one of the bullies shoves at Chen, knocking him to the ground. Another winds up to kick, but in the time it takes him to shift his balance to the other foot and aim, John has tackled him to the ground, spinning him onto his stomach in a quick, clean wrestling maneuver. He twists the bully’s arm sharply, making him howl. In a flash, before the others can recover from their surprise, John is back on is feet, flexing his fingers, eyes shining. _  
_

_He’s brilliant. Absolutely brilliant._

Sherlock shoots him a fast grin as he deftly tosses the largest boy onto his back, knocking the breath from him. His feet dance through his Capoeira maneuvers as he sizes up the third. Third Bully holds up his fists and snarls. Sherlock ducks his slow punch and flips him, his head hitting the pavement with a satisfying crack. He groans and does not stir. Sherlock whirls, itching for another, but of course, they’re already done. John is standing next to Chen and his boyfriend, soothing them, but catches his eye. They grin at each other like Cheshire cats.

…

“Can’t believe you two can _fight_ like that,” Chen says with wide-eyed awe as he holds a wad of cotton to his nose. John has sat both boys down on the low stone wall to check them for injuries. Chen’s boyfriend sits close, hugging his knees to his chest, physically unhurt, but looking much worse for wear. He’s holding Chen’s hand tightly. On hold with the police, Sherlock makes a mental note to tell Chen about a good counselor for this sort of thing. The three aggressors lie in a semi-conscious heap at his feet. One moves to get up and John jumps up, but Sherlock roughly kicks the boy’s legs out from under him. John settles, nodding approvingly.

John turns his attention back to the young couple.

“There, I don’t think there’s anything worse than the bloody nose and some bruising to your face. You’re both very lucky, and I’m horribly sorry this happened to you. The police will be here in a moment and will need a full report from you. We’ll stay with you.”

“You two a team now, or something?” Chen asks, his awe slightly hampered by the nasal press of the cotton.

“Chen, didn’t you see?” his boyfriend mutters to him. “They were holding hands. They’re _like us.”_

Sherlock looks over, still on hold. He meets John’s eyes and feels a kind of pulse. The good doctor, he notices, does not correct them. _Likely better to let them think it, safety among allies and all._

“Here, Chen,” John reaches back into his first aid kit and takes out a thin packet that, as he twists it, begins to rapidly cool. “Hold this to your face where it’s swelling.” John takes in the shaken boyfriend. “I’m sorry, we’ve not met – I’m Dr. John Watson.”

“Avery.”

“Alright, Avery, I have a very important job for you.” John holds up a thin blue, rattling tube Sherlock recognizes as homeopathics. “You both need to take three of these arnica tablets every fifteen minutes for the next hour. Avery, I see you’re wearing a rather formidable watch. Think you could track that? It’ll help immensely with the shock you’re both feeling, and with Chen’s injury.” _Making him feel useful, taking his mind off things. Good._

Avery takes the little blue vial John offers, paying careful attention as he’s shown how to twist the cap to dispense the right dosage. He looks up at John and nods, steel in his eyes, and puts a protective arm around Chen.

“Got it.”

“Right, you two sit tight. I’m going to go make sure those arseholes don’t have it in mind to move any time soon.”

Sherlock thumbs off his mobile as John approaches. He gives John a slow, respectful nod, smiling.

“Well done, doctor,” he says quietly.

“Well done, yourself.” John, hands stuffed in his pockets, nudges Sherlock’s unwounded Shoulder for emphasis. “I was wondering how a skinny thing like you was going to hold up. Not sure you really needed me here at all. Might want me to check those stitches, though.”

Sherlock nods, wincing as a patrol car pulls up, lights flashing.

“You’re worlds better with the injuries and the… _people_ part. Nice work with Avery.”

John shrugs. “Nothing special. A basic first aid course could teach you as much.”

“Not so sure about that. Either way, it was much more fun.”

Impossibly, John’s grin grows wider.

“Oy, freak!”

Sherlock’s own grin curdles. He can see John’s smile flatten to a solid scowl at the approaching officer.

“Sergeant Donovan,” Sherlock says icily.

“Freak?” John mutters to him quietly, his hackles clearly rising. Sherlock shakes his head ever so slightly.

“Suppose we need to thank you,” Donovan drawls.

“Course you need to thank him,” snaps John. “He very nearly single-handedly saved these two young men from a vicious hate crime.”

“Yea!” Avery chimes in from the wall. Chen turns to him, startled. “Those pieces of shite,” he jerks his sharp chin at the pile of thugs, “could have _killed_ my _boyfriend_. We’d probably just be a stupid, sad memorial about now if it weren’t for Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson.” Avery’s chest heaves. Chen wraps his arm around his shoulders soothingly, smiling softly.

“Right, um, thank you,” Donovan says, nonplussed, then squints at John. “Who are you?”

“I’m just his delivery man.”

“He’s my _doctor_. Dr. John Watson, Sergeant Sally Donvan.”

“Ah.” John makes no move to shake her hand. Sherlock grins. Sally rolls her eyes.

“Watch out for this one,” she says scathingly. “Running around London like he’s some genius vigilante. Play with him and _you_ might end up the one needs saving.”

He can see John seethe, but he lets the barb pass by.

“Sergeant Donovan, instead of standing about insulting my _friend,_ you may want to see to the rather large mess we’ve diffused for you.”

Donovan sniffs at him, then turns to the other officers and begins giving orders. After they’ve given their statements, Sherlock shrugs to the edge of the scene. The rest of this part is tedious, the arrests, the repetitive, idiotic questions. They sit with the boys, John making small talk with Avery and monitoring Chen’s swelling, Sherlock asking after their dance training. Finally, Chen’s elder sister arrives to bring the boys home. Only then do they leave.

“We’re alright now, Mr. Holmes,” Chen says through the window of the dusty, sky blue Mini, “My sister’s cool.”

Avery suddenly leans over him, bursting out the window, “Thank you. For saving Chen.”

“Take care, boys.”

“Oh, and sir,” Chen calls out as the car begins to drive off. Sherlock looks back. Chen winks and gives him a thumbs-up. “ _Nice_ one.”

Sherlock watches the car drive off, his chest very tight, and turns to find John watching him.

“Hungry?”

“Starving,” John replies with a soft grin, falling into step beside him.

“Good. Oh, and there’s something we need to pick up on the way home.”

“Home?”

“ _My_ home. I meant. The flat. Place. Whatever.”

…

As they pass by the cash machine kiosk, Sherlock slows their pace. John follows his gaze. The cane is still propped against the brick wall by the machine.

“ _Oh_ …” John huffs, looking down at himself, then at Sherlock, shaking his head with wonder. “Incredible. Just. _Amazing_.” Sherlock grins at him. _Ok, here goes._

“You should know,” he says in a rush, “my landlady gives me a remarkably favorable rate. Between the two of us, we could cover it handily, even on your pension. I play the violin when I think, argue with myself, sometimes don’t talk for days on end, generally found to be utterly disagreeable to be around–”

“Are you… asking me to share the flat with you?” John asks incredulously, holding the cane, but not placing it on the ground for support.

“Um. Yes.”

“Oh. Wow. I… bit sudden? Haven’t even had dinner yet.”

“Did just wrestle three cretins to the ground together…”

John presses his lips together, giving Sherlock a long, measuring look.

“There’s two bedrooms…” Sherlock trails off, lamely.

John’s eyes sparkle in the lamplight as they watch each other closely. John steps toward him. Then again.

Sherlock feels his stomach flip and his knees go watery as John comes _very_ close, the conifer-sweat-fried rice scent filling his nose, the brisk wind blowing suddenly, whipping his coat.

John hesitantly reaches up, tracing his soft, surgeon’s fingertips down Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock presses his face against the touch, his breath coming quickly, then places his hand on the small of John’s back and _pulling,_ closes the small distance between their chests. John brushes his lips lightly along Sherlock’s cheek, then hums close to his ear,

 _“_ Well, _love,_ who says we’ll be needing two?”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! Find me on tumblr as mama-orion


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